


Lippen schweigen

by ileolai



Series: They're Homosexual, Susan (Good Omens) [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cuddling, Franz Lehár, M/M, indulging my love of opera, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 18:24:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19447027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ileolai/pseuds/ileolai
Summary: Won't you stay/ the band is playing/ one last dance?





	Lippen schweigen

The music is awful.   
  
Of course it is, Aziraphale chose it, and the angel stubbornly refuses to develop taste in anything that exists beyond 1865. It’s just a mishmash of vowels, unintelligible German vowels, crackling along on his gramophone (for crying out loud, he still uses a gramophone)  
  
Crowley is comfortably entrenched in the couch; Aziraphale is standing there with his hand out, _beaming_ with his love of vowels. Coat forgotten somewhere in the shop, hair askew from when they were climbing all over each other, daring him to surrender with that _look_ like he doesn't know precisely how effective it is.   
  
Aside from being quite pleasantly tipsy, Crowley is both fundamentally unable to resist his angel and also never really had a problem with that. This is the game they’ve been playing ever since those naughty little oysters in Rome.  
  
_(Let’s try it. Okay.)_  
  
So the deeply unimpressed look he returns over his glasses, they both know, is only token resistance, a beat in their 6000-years-long dance.   
  
He is pulled-- unsteady, slightly wobbling-- to his feet, and Aziraphale presses into him, starts to move with him.   
  
It’s awkward, of course. Aziraphale has all the (drunk) confidence of someone who knows what they’re doing in the lead, but neither of them are built to waltz; particularly not the snake who still struggles with the entire concept of having limbs.   
  
The angel is pressed _so close_ , though, breathing warm into his neck, smiling, practically _vibrating_ with the joy of German vowels and having demon-shaped play-dough in his hands. It’s dizzying, as heady and inebriating as the single malt Scotch sloshing around in Crowley’s system.  
  
The operetta ends with a triumphant flourish, and Crowley finally takes the upper hand and pulls Aziraphale back down to the couch with him-- laughing, warm and soft, tangled in each other.   
  
The gramophone crackles on; neither of them hear it anymore.


End file.
